


The Ghost and the Darkness

by asuralucier



Series: The Boy From Nowhere [1]
Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Bad Jokes, Gen, M/M, Mutual Trust, Pre-JW1, Pre-Slash, Winston's sage advice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 17:13:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18370484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: After an attempt on his life, Winston gets a new driver. (Set before the first film.)





	The Ghost and the Darkness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rubynye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubynye/gifts).



> I was just so happy to see someone request _John Wick_! This didn't turn out as shippy as I'd wanted but I do hope you enjoy this little treat anyway.

Out of all the concierges that Winston has had the pleasure to employ at the New York Continental, Charon is, without a doubt, one of the best. The man’s instincts are sharp, whittled down to the quick and only the necessary absolutes. Winston doesn’t even mind that Munich and Shanghai are getting desperate to poach him. 

“Charlie wonders if you would do it as a favor. A sort of _quid pro quo_.” Charon says. “That is all I’m saying.” 

The timing of this request is uncanny and unavoidable, but Winston thinks Charon has dressed it up as nicely as he is able; if only for that, he decides to play along, “ _Quid pro quo_ , is it? As if Charlie isn’t already compensated for all the business that the Continental shoos his way. Handsomely, I might add.” 

Charon holds his ground, “If it makes you feel any better, sir, I’ve met him. I don’t think it’s a terrible idea.” 

It’s bad habit to talk about guests. Winston doesn’t condone gossip and no one makes enough of an impression on Charon for him to mention it. Except now, apparently. 

“Word is,” Charon continues, taking Winston’s silence as salient permission to continue. “That Marcus picked him up from the streets and gave him to Charlie. Begging your pardon, sir, but I do think Mr. Wick would interest you.” 

 

And that is how Winston comes to meet John Wick. The kid looks about twelve and like an overgrown reed pining for more in the world. The pathetic excuse for a stubble that John is sporting adds to that impression rather than takes away from it. There’s nothing about this kid that looks remotely like a street rat, but at the same time, there seems to be an unflappability about John that could have only been honed and sharpened on the street. 

“How much do you know about your new job?” 

“You need a driver. I don’t sleep, and I keep my mouth shut.” 

Winston considers this; he decides he likes the answer and is intrigued, “What else?” 

“Nothing else, sir. I can take care of myself, but you can too. I’m not going to insult you.” 

“You realize, that by drawing attention to the fact that I might be insulted, you might have already insulted me?” 

To his credit, John barely flinches, “I usually don’t think that far ahead.” 

“I suggest you start,” Winston says. “It’s how men differ from animals; it’s not that we have the capacity to be crueler than them. They are cruel by instinct; it’s how they live. As for us, well, we know that the words that leave our mouth have a high chance of coming back to bite us in the arse. Cruelty by necessity, you ought to learn the difference.” 

 

John doesn’t sleep, he’d said, but Winston doesn’t really believe it until he does. Nearly four in the morning, Winston leaves a voicemail on John’s burner with an address. John texts him back barely five minutes later to assure him that the voicemail has been deleted and that he is on his way. Twenty minutes, give or take. 

John pulls up to the curb in fifteen. He leans over to open the door; he certainly doesn’t have to, but Winston appreciates the gesture. 

“You’re early,” Winston says. 

“I was always going to be fifteen,” John informs him. “I wanted to impress you. Charlie says I should.” 

“And, do you always do what Charlie says?” 

John taps his thumb almost thoughtfully on the wheel, “Only sometimes. Where are we going?” 

A strange tiredness takes hold of Winston, then. Reflecting back on it, he then has to admit that it isn’t so strange given the time. The obvious option would be to retire to his penthouse at the Continental, but it would not be a stretch to imagine that the lobby would be crawling with all sorts. Just thinking about it puts him on edge. 

“I’ll tell you where to go. Take the next right.” 

 

“This is where you live,” John says. Winston can’t tell if he is impressed. 

“You didn’t think I lived at the Continental like they say I do, did you? Never mind that it is a lovely penthouse and I should stay there more often. But routine kills, Jonathan.” 

Winston hasn’t the slightest if John’s name stands on its own, or if it is even the young man’s real name. He’s since decided that “John” doesn’t particularly suit the individual standing in front of him, somehow too plain, somehow not _enough_. Jonathan is a name which gives John’s person _meaning_ , meaning that he’s possibly never had before in his lifetime. Winston knows this without a doubt. 

John seems to take this in stride, because he doesn’t dwell on it. Instead, he looks around, “I can’t believe you live like this.” 

“Like what?” 

John thinks, “A normal person. Someone like me could buy your apartment. Just give me twenty years.” 

Winston doesn’t think that there’s any good to come out of bragging. If he flaunts what he has, then it’s for a purpose. It’s never for the sake of inflating his own ego. As such, it’s good to lead by example. He can see where John’s coming from. The apartment isn’t lacking, and on Winston’s bookshelf is a self-indulgent edition of Dante Alighieri's _Divina Commedia_ , but that is his only indulgence. 

“You say that as if Charlie doesn’t give you a fair cut.” 

John shrugs, “He does. But I have debts.” 

“Debts.” 

John fixes him with a steady stare, unwavering and wholly compelling, “I’d rather you didn’t ask me about them. That’s beyond the scope of our relationship.” And then the man remembers himself, “Sorry, sir.” 

“Don’t be,” Winston tells him, charmed despite himself. “More people need to tell me no. It’s refreshing. Can I offer you a drink?” 

 

A week after that, someone takes a pop at Winston while he’s waiting for his morning espresso. (“Routine kills,” yes, but in his defense, Winston is always on the lookout for interesting places to patronize for his coffee.) Winston scalds his hand, but the poor fellow gets a hole in his sternum. A woman screams, a dog starts barking frantically, and someone else shouts in Cantonese (a tourist), and in all that confusion, John Wick appears at Winston’s elbow, like a ghost. 

“I brought the car around.” There is, Winston notes, a telling bump of a piece underneath John’s jacket, but the man moves without difficulty and it’s not as if anyone is going to give John a second glance. In these situations, people are drawn to panic and John is nearly invisible. 

“Good lad,” Winston says. He remembers he hasn’t yet paid for his espresso and slips a ten-dollar bill into the plastic tip cup. After all, it is only polite. 

 

John refuses to leave the room while the doctor patches Winston up. Winston doesn’t particularly think that he needs medical attention or a babysitter, but neither John nor the doctor, a usually reasonable chap who Winston had met once on business in Singapore appear to want to grant him any peace. Finally, Winston shoos the doctor away and asks John to fix him a whiskey on the rocks. John complies, taking it easy on the rocks an exercising generosity when it comes to pouring the whiskey. 

Winston eyes the result with a wary look, “With those proportions, one wonders if you’re trying to take advantage of me, Jonathan.” 

John doesn’t seem to have gotten the joke. He says, with his eyes towards the over-full tumbler, “Do you want me to make it again? I’ve never poured anybody a drink, before.” 

Winston says, “Shame. Though again, you would have been wasted behind a bar. Never mind. It’s uncouth to drink quickly, anyway. I’ll take my time.” 

Now John cracks the faintest of smiles. Then he draws his eyes down to his shoes, newly polished. “ -- I’m sorry, Winston, I should have. Am I fired?” 

“You’re my driver,” Winston reminds him, flexing the fingers of his bandaged hand. It hurts, but not unimaginably so, “Not my minder. And as I recall, someone said I could take care of myself, once. Maybe it’s something else I forget.” 

“I did say that,” John says, a touch pleased with himself. 

 

The second time someone tries to kill Winston isn’t necessarily memorable in itself; it happens, of course, and in time, this too shall pass. But then it becomes such because Winston has the feeling that he is seeing John for the first time, as the man extends and empties a clip into oncoming fire. When he finally gets a moment, Winston basks in it, the way John’s muscles contract and the way his breaths are short but altogether present.

“Okay?” John says, his eyes dark and bright. 

“Fine,” Winston responds gamely. He takes John’s proffered hand and gets to his feet. He looks around them, some of the bodies are alive, some are simply...not. “Shall I leave it to you to make a reservation?” 

“That’s very funny,” John deadpans, but his cell is already to his ear, “...Yeah, Charlie? I’m going to need a couple of guys. We’re at Bedford and Martense. -- It’s not any of your business what we’re doing in Brooklyn.” 

 

Winston suggests that they leave as to not get in Charlie’s way before the man and his crew arrives. The fact is, that Charlie has already let John go once, as if to say he has no real use for the man. And really, it’s Charlie’s loss. There’s suddenly that part of Winston that doesn’t want to share John with anyone else. Winston is aware too, that the sentiment is more weakness than it is practicality, the way that he’s reasoned it thus far in his head, but still, he can’t help himself. 

He lets John guide him into his bedroom, and waits for another comment about how his bedroom looks like a normal bedroom. It doesn’t come. John clearly doesn’t believe in wasting the same words on someone twice. It occurs to Winston that his bedroom is not so much _normal_ as it is monkish. The room holds very little furniture, just a bed, a dresser, and an end table. 

“Can I get you anything?” John says. 

“A drink. Not an overzealous one this time, please.” 

“You got it.” Any other idiot would be mindful of Winston’s position, _too_ mindful of it, and insist Winston see a doctor. But John trusts him to take care of himself. 

John comes back with a respectable double on the rocks and extricates his piece from under his jacket. He presses his thumb against the metal and the intensity of the gesture nearly makes Winston want to twitch like a young man, lesser than what he is now. 

“Is that one of Charlie’s?” 

“No, it’s one of mine. I don’t trust guns handled by other people,” John shrugs, putting the weapon back in its holster. “I’ve been told that it’s not paranoia if they are really out to get you.” 

Winston says, “Your paranoia’s wasted on the dead, I hope you know that, Jonathan.” But he has no doubt John has an exacting eye for detail. Something that Charlie would have noticed, if nothing else. But Winston thinks he sees much more: John’s quiet resolve, his glinting eye, and what that might mean if John has someone to open up the right doors for him. 

“I don’t mind the dead.” John says. “But I’m open-minded. I have to be, don’t I? Otherwise I’d just be keeping my eyes closed.” 

Winston takes out a single gold coin from the pockets of his trousers and he feels the heat of John’s gaze on it. Most likely, John has seen them passed back and forth during jobs, but it is unlikely that he would have had gold of his own to keep. Not as an underling. 

“Catch,” Winston says, and flicks the coin. 

John does. He doesn’t refuse or question his boon. He puts the doubloon away, reverence clinging to his fingers.

“You’ll also need an appointment with a tailor, and maybe a barber.” Winston touches his own chin, “Figure out something to do with this. There’s a difference, Jonathan, between keeping your eyes open and the inability to make a decision. One should not be mistaking one for the other.” 

John mirrors Winston’s gesture and his fingers graze over his own stubble, “I didn’t think about that. But sure, I’ll keep that in mind.”


End file.
